


Devil's Dyke

by MarisFerasi



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Fluff and Smut, Genderfluid Character, He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Homophobic Language, M/M, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Retirement, Schmoop, Slurs, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, brief/mild homophobia/transphobia by a background character, going out together, hand holding, they get back at her tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:42:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23843200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarisFerasi/pseuds/MarisFerasi
Summary: Yet another softe bois retirement fic. They move, they flip a cottage, they make a home, they go on dates, they steal some books from the mean lady in town, they cuddle, they make tender love.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

“Dunno ‘bout this, angel,” Crowley says doubtfully, hands stuffed in his tight pockets. The toe of his snakeskin boot bores into the soft, sandy earth beneath them. He says it gently, though, like he's _trying_ to be nice about it. 

"Whyever not, my dear?" Aziraphale frowns, pouting a little, and flicks his concerned gaze between Crowley and the cottage. 

They’re stood outside the broken-down gate of the ancient, sea-weathered, brick-and-thatch bungalow Aziraphale seems to have bought on a whim.

“Where’s the room for your books?”

“Oh, yes. Well. I _had_ hoped you’d figure that one out for me, dear boy. Always better with space than me, as I recall. You make space, and I take it up.” He hip-checks the demon playfully and creaks the gate open, pointedly ignoring Crowley's sneering side-eye. His face folds into creases of concern as the wood splinters away into his hand, belying some of his anxiety. "Oh, dear." 

Despite their time-old-age, _this_ seems like a big decision. For different reasons to each, of course.

Crowley buries his teeth in his bottom lip against a cheeky grin and follows the angel up the walkway and onto the front porch.

It’s chilly- despite it being April- out here on the _actual_ ledge of the coast. The house is practically overhanging the sea on one side, the cliff dropping quickly from the edge of the back garden. 

_Speaking of the garden,_ Crowley thinks _, it needs to be razed and begun again._ It’s nothing but weeds and dead azaleas overtaking the hedgerows, now. An ancient, cracking bough of wisteria covers the archway at one side, protecting the walkway to the back. He stares at it intently while Aziraphale fits the key into the lock and lo’, the vines look a little fresher by the time he’s being coaxed inside by a hand on his wrist. 

“I know it needs work, but. Well. Surely between us both it won’t be so bad. That is, if you’re still willing to come along.”

 _That_ , Crowley thinks, _is the trick of it._

 _He’s_ the one who wanted to move out of the city. Who feels the need for fresh air now that the sword of Damocles is stuck firmly in the ground, instead of hanging over their heads. He’d drunkenly expressed this to his angel a month or so ago over a lavish spread of local curries and pillow-soft naan in teh back room of the bookshop and- obliging as he’s never been- Aziraphale had begun To Think.

Crowley’s seen it brewing for weeks now, slowly getting worse. He’d thought on more than one occasion that Aziraphale was going to tell him to bugger off and leave him be for a century so they could air out their wings and relax into the new world order.

That was his anxiety talking, or so saith the angel.

 _He’s probably right_.

"And I thought you'd bought it for _me_ ," Crowley teases, heart in his throat. Aziraphale relaxes at the jab and beams at him. 

Aziraphale turns in the entryway, backing into the short hall as he watches Crowley walk in and glance around. He casts a look over the cozy living area and hall, into the edge of kitchen he can see and how much sunlight it lets in through the massive sliding doors that open into a small glass room.

“Uh. Um. It has a little greenhouse off the back, where the sun hits. And a wraparound garden, and the back is fenced with a tall uhm. Bit of fencing,” Aziraphale says quickly, giving Crowley that tight smile like he used to use with his bosses. Crowley nods and cranes his neck, peers up the stairs to the two bedrooms that part ways across the threshold there.

"Hmm."

“Two rooms, but I thought one could be a study, or a library if we magick it right.” That earned an arched eyebrow, alright. Aziraphale preens a little at the small victory of the smirk playing across Crowley's features and ducks his chin just so.

” _One_ bed, angel?” Crowley croons, teasing at their slightly-acknowledged mutual sore spot. They’ve gotten much closer since they fooled their bosses, true, but _that line_ remains loosely drawn in the sand.

___

_It had started with a coy, "Won't you take me home, darling?"_

_After they skimmed by on their trials and had a relaxed, blissful lung-ful-of-fresh-air lunch at the Ritz, Aziraphale had leaned across the table and brushed Crowley's knuckles with his fingertips and whispered the request._

_As if Crowley could do anything but exactly that._

_A sloppy, desperate fumble had been shared that night, when he’d walked Aziraphale to the bookshop (after taking the scenic route home so they could amble peaceably) and stood on the stoop, neck craned back and loose-limbed in the din of the late summer evening. He knew he'd been grinning like a lunatic and wasn't quite able to stop. Something felt too right about the way Aziraphale was looking back at him fondly, openly._

_They were relieved—_ relaxed _\-- for the first time he can remember. He was smiling despite himself or any swagger he thought he possessed, for the first time since far too long._

 _Aziraphale had gripped his lapels and hauled him up the spare step between them like he weighed nothing at all and pressed their mouths together soundly. Crowley had hung there and felt his eyebrows creep up into his hairline until Aziraphale was pulling back—reeling away, and then he’d_ lunged _._

_____

And now, Aziraphale hesitates, visibly, and then (damn him) he ploughs through. “Yes, well. _You’re_ the one who sleeps. And I… I could too, if you invite me. The rooms can be our own, or they can be _ours_.”

Crowley’s mouth goes dry at the idea spoken aloud, freely. Aziraphale's bravery astounds him again and again, now that their former employers have fucked off, and seemingly for good this time.

In a panic he maybe accidentally miracles the upstairs cleaned and built-up and prepared with a thought. Yellow eyes blink, slow, and Crowley leans back to glance up the stairs as Aziraphale cranes over the banister to do the same. They’re peering up the dark stairwell and into the room directly at the top. It’d dim within, painted a soft grey but there are shutter-lines of the drawn blinds against the midday sun on the wall they can see from down here.

“Ngk,” Crowley says, shoulders up around his ears. “Alright, then. That’s a... thing.”

Aziraphale snorts gently and steps back again, curling his hands together in front of his belly like he does when he’s pleased about something he thinks shouldn’t enjoy.

Crowley wants to see less of that. The Aziraphale's-anxiety part, not the joy. He _definitely_ wants more of Aziraphale's joy. This move is supposed to help them _both_ relax a bit more, after 6000 years of looking up-- or over their shoulders. Crowley reaches out- tentative, slow- and brushes his fingertips against the back of one plump hand resting on the newel post. Aziraphale's breathing hitches and then he is Paying Attention, riverbed eyes locked on the demon. He turns his palm up and catches the tips of Crowley's varnished fingers with his own.

“Well. Let’s get started on our home then, angel.” The smile Crowley receives is _blinding_.

* * *

A month or so into the move and they're still adjusting things here and there. getting used to a roommate- regardless of how long you're known or loved them beforehand- is a learning curve for anyone. For two occult _(ethereal!)_ beings who've lived alone for _literal_ _millennia_ , it's nearly impossible to have expected no hiccups at all.

When Aziraphale discovered the new craze for rustic looks and shiplap just seemed so wonderfully modern, Crowley was quick to grimace and snap away the rough-hewn panels, only to replace them with a milky-whitewashed version that muted the effect and somehow made it more cozy in the den and hall. 

The den, water closet, and kitchen (so, the whole of the downstairs) had been Aziraphale's projects, while he left the construction of the garden, bedroom, and his library to Crowley. 

Accordingly, the den is piled with a supremely squashy sofa and several skirted tables already mushroom-capped with books. One massive TV and sound system hung over the fireplace was Crowley's influence, of course. The angel had updated the fireplace so it keeps the coastal air dry (and Crowley warm at night).

The bedroom above the den is where Crowley made a nice nest, with a wide, lush bed with silky sheets mounded with entirely too many pillows and blankets. He will concede that the bedroom is the one place that he allows an abundance of anything. It houses the sister of the fireplace below, though much neater and smaller for a significantly smaller space. Thus far, Crowley has used it every night he's slept. 

Aziraphale has learned (more thoroughly, because he already _knew_ , just not the depth of it) that Crowley is an absolutely hopeless _dork_. 

Not really in the sort of highly-educated, maths- sort- of- way, which the angel thinks is more called a "geek," but rather in that pop culture sort- of- way where he watches admittedly terrible cult shows and listens to seventies music and slouches around in leggings and a NASA sweatshirt when they are at home all day (and by the way, as long as we're rotating things, Crowley hasn't worn his sunglasses except out in the actual sun or into town since they moved and Aziraphale is giddy with it).

Anthony J. Crowley is also quite the reader, the angel discovers, just not of the kinds of physical books Aziraphale reads. Crowley reads magazines or something slightly dodgy called _fanfiction_ on his mobile in bed or lounged across the sofa, when he's not playing those mind-numbing mobile games. 

( _Crowley had taken credit for the mobile games once, especially Candy Crush and Farmville. And now here he is, a victim of their addictive mindlessness_ ).

Aziraphale is certain he's caught a... _tawdry_ story on Crowley's screen more than once.

When he's trying to lure the angel into something vaguely modern, Crowley shuffles several fantasy novels from the last century onto the nearest side table and systematically sits the angel down one evening a week or so later to watch one of a series called _Lord of the Rings_ , which he insists was a huge deal not too long ago. 

( _Aziraphale has to admit, he did enjoy the premise, and he has taken the books on occasion to read in secret after Crowley is asleep_.)

( _Crowley knows that Aziraphale takes them-- why else would he leave them out when he is normally very tidy?_ ) 

It doesn't take long at all before the invitation to bed arises. In fact, the second night they're in the house Crowley asked if Aziraphale wanted to sit in the bed with him if he was going to read all night. Sure, he'd asked it half-choked and red as a beet, but the angel had melted and instantly gathered a book to bring along. By the time he'd turned around to follow he saw Crowley's bare feet disappearing up the stairs and chuckled fondly. 

* * *

Tonight, a few months in, Crowley is tidying up after dinner, whisking all their _door-dashed_ takeaway containers into the bin while Aziraphale pours them each a glass of brandy. 

"The garden, my dear?" 

"'S cold tonight, angel. Orangerie's warmer. Or the den, I could light a fire." Aziraphale squints at him and sees that Crowley is bundled up, even inside and out of the cold, in a chunky knit jumper and some sort of skin-tight lounge bottoms ("They're called _leggings_ , angel. These ones are _fleece lined_ , feel."). There are even thick, woolen socks on his feet. 

Warmer, it is, Aziraphale thinks. He can work with the orangerie. He wants very much to hold Crowley a bit, is all. Aziraphale waves a hand and there is a soft throw over the back of the chaise longue in the glass room. He picks up the tumblers and sidles past Crowley at the sink, nudging the demon playfully with a hip. 

"Oh, I _would_ like to see the stars if we can, tonight. Should be clear enough." He demurs and slides out of the back door with both drinks still in hand. Crowley can't do anything but follow. He cracks an easy smile and follows Aziraphale out into the slightly-damp warmth of the little glassed-in room which houses the tropical plants and some of the more delicate flowers. They ruffle their leaves and shove their best petals up, having an audience. 

There is a wide, worn, hideously orange, tufted-velvet chaise longue in the center of the orangerie which has a spindly table next to it for drinks or (more usually) a stack of books. Aziraphale often sits here to watch Crowley work in the garden, or just to get a bit of sun, himself. The width of it, of course, means that they can both fit if they drape together on the seat and lay back sort of squished, just so (they've practiced). 

(Aziraphale may have miracled up the monstrosity purely for this purpose, but we shall never rightly know). 

Tonight it is clear and cold out, the remains of a winter storm blowing across the ocean despite the late-spring season. 

Obligingly for his demon, Aziraphale sinks down onto the wide thing and sets his glass down, reaching for Crowley as he sits and tips back to find a comfortable place to settle. He ends up a bit on his side with one shoulder tucked under the angel's arm and the other balancing his tumbler on Aziraphale's belly, next to the angel's own hand and glass.

After a few moments their legs tangle, and Aziraphale pulls down the soft tartan throw to tuck around Crowley's back to trap in their combined warmth. 

After a while of gentle, comfortable conversation, Crowley slowly--carefully-- rests his cheek on Aziraphale's chest. He's holding his breath, tense, but the angel barrels on talking (intentionally). Several moments later, Crowley yawns hugely and sets his empty tumbler on the table by reaching across Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale catches his wrist on the retreat and keeps his hand, settling them both on his belly below Crowley's chin. "I like that _we've_ _made it_ _here_ , my dear. Thank you for not giving up, every time I turned you away." He ticks his thumb across bony knuckles and adjusts their mutual grip into something tender and affectionate. 

Crowley predictably hesitates, tenses, and then melts. "Angel, of course I was gonna wait. You idiot. There's no one for me but you. Hasn't ever been." 

Aziraphale gives him a watery smile and presses his lips to the tender-pale inside of Crowley's wrist, and settles them back into the lounge again. If he's holding the demon a little tighter, well.

There will be no complaints. 

____

A little while later, Aziraphale tsked. “ _Honestly_ ,” came the soft murmur on the back end of the half-hearted admonishment. Crowley grunted and burrowed a bit deeper, sharp nose leading the way under the covers to dip between the angel’s hip and the pillows propping him up. “I suppose I never thought of you as a cuddler, all these years, but now I can’t see how I could have _possibly_ missed it.”

“Not cuddly.” Crowley groused, muffled greatly by the cushions and the soft curve of an angel’s love-handle. “'M s _piky n’ mean_.”

“Of course you are, my dear. Positively venomous,” Aziraphale agreed. A smile tainted his words and he could feel the blush from the demon heating the thin fabric between their skin. Aziraphale cleared his throat and stuck a finger in his book. “Why tonight, Crowley? We’ve been here a month or so, now. And I've stayed in here nearly every night you have. Why are you so cuddly _tonight_?”

“’S cold,” Crowley answered quickly. He wormed an arm across Aziraphale’s lap to lay in the dip between the curve of his belly and thighs. His face somehow sunk deeper into the pillows.

“That is, as the humans say, _bullshit_.” The angel smirked quietly to himself and let the bait lay where he left it.

It didn't sit long. He could feel Crowley holding his breath against blurting out an answer. He tenses in muscle groups and relaxes them in ripples like a snake, coiling up against itself. A heavy sigh is heaved and then: 

“I… I like sleep. But I miss you. If that makes sense. I know you’re in the next room, or downstairs, or just across the bed, but I like you close. Since…everything. I dunno,” Crowley fizzled, peeking one bright yellow eye out and then frowning when he saw Aziraphale looking down at him. The angel looks incredibly soft, just now. The lamp at the bedside gave him a soft glow at the edges. 

"Yes, well. I'd rather be here, too, darling." Aziraphale winds his fingers into Crowley's lengthening hair and lets the demon curve back against him. He makes note of the hard body tucked in close going limp with relaxation as Crowley eventually falls to sleep. 

* * *

The first time they go into the village _together_ is to scrounge up some proper food. Aziraphale hasn’t been a glutton in nearly a week (the last time being over some danishes Crowley brought in from the local bake shop) and he’s looking peaky.

"Let's go get a bite, angel. Explore the town together?" Crowley is sprawled across the sofa on his back, legs kicked up over the angel's lap and his head squashed against the other arm, neck bent awkwardly. He's moping out of boredom because it's a beautiful day out, but he isn't up to gardening. He's got cabin fever. 

"Oh alright, darling. That sounds fun." Aziraphale pats his bony ankles and puts his book down on the side table. 

Crowley jumps up and gets ready in a simple black narrow strapped, square-necked romper with white dots that ends at mid-calf and low, red converse trainers with no socks. He ties his gently-curling hair back in a half-bun, and makes the offer to drive them into town. The keys twirl lazily around one finger. Aziraphale is busy staring, slightly dumbfounded, at Crowley's skinny calves and ankles being laid bare. He doesnt think hes seen them bare since at least the 1980s, the last time he can recall Crowley presenting female (before playing his part at Nanny Ashtoreth). 

The angel corrects himself at a curious sound from Crowley and beams, climbing graciously into the Bentley. Crowley starts the old car and leans over to pluck a pair of dark glasses out of the glove compartment. The sight of the demon with his eyes hidden after so long _without_ glasses is a bit jarring. 

They’re walking down the sidewalk, side by side like always toward a curving old building of several shops and restaurants in a row. Crowley's romper apparently has pockets because his dark-varnished fingers are tucked deep in there instead of one being in the angel's hand. Aziraphale frowns slightly and mentally vows to remedy that, soon. He is also very glad that he forsook his waistcoat and rolled his sleeves up, as the sun has decided to not only finally act like itself but it seems to be feeling a bit extra, today. It's hot as -- well. _Hell_. 

One of the shops they pass has a faded red awning and promises to be a greasy little chippy. 

“Oh, this smells _delightful_ , darling, let’s go in?” Aziraphale swans toward the glass door to hold it open and ushers Crowley inside with a hand at his lower back. He bellies up to the register to place an order for two. He knows Crowley is somehow partial to greasy Scottish delights and takes his own pleasure at seeing the demon nibble at the enormous plank of cod he gets on a bed of overly- salty chips.

“S’alright,” Crowley comments, chewing thoughtfully. “You like it?”

“Of course, darling. Something salty and fried does the soul well every now and then.” He watches as Crowley dips his chin a little against a smile and looks out over the town square.

His dearest friend looks incredibly relaxed out here, not peering over their shoulders or dancing in a protective circle. He’s just there, across the little iron table smudged in old grease on the patio of a chippy in a strip, watching the humans milling about and just... breathing.

The move had been a _brilliant_ idea. 

Crowley's hair is longer, a sign of comfort and confidence. He's noticeably less anxious. The garden has been good for venting and creating, something Aziraphale has come to notice is a constant, needful drive for his beloved friend. Gone is that tight, tense swagger he used to put up walls between him and whoever he was dealing with out in the world. Here, in their little postcard town and in their home, he's just... Crowley. 

The redhead nudges his remaining chips toward the angel and goes to order two cherry hand pies, knowing Aziraphale had been eyeing them at the counter. They’re fried up and put in a newspaper cone with a fat dollop of ice cream on top.

Aziraphale watches, eyes nearly bugging as Crowley swipes at the melting cream with that split-tipped tongue of his and then actually _eats the pie_. He’s never eaten a whole dessert in front of the angel, before. He usually takes a taste and pushes it away to watch Aziraphale finish both helpings.

“ _Aziraphale_ ,” Crowley prompts, slamming the angel back into his body. He’d been daydreaming about that tongue for a moment there.

“Yes, darling?”

“Your ice cream’s melting.” Crowley smirks a tiny bit and then snorts when Aziraphale jumps and starts swiping at the mess drifting under the cuff of his sleeve. “Let’s keep walking and we’ll clean it up, yeah?”

“Oh, drat. Yes, alright,” he agrees and stands, finishing the pie with a large bite and then tosses the ruined paper in the bin with the chippy wrappings.

Crowley ushers him onto the sidewalk and down a few shops and then snaps the sticky mess away when there are no humans close.

“Oh, thank you my dear,” Aziraphale sighs, beaming at the demon. Crowley’s lip curls a little in a half-hearted sneer, but he crowds the angel into a bric-a-brac shop as a distraction.

“Go... sniff out a book, angel. I’m going for the records.” He waves lazily and swivels away to the corner where several crumbling record players are stacked like columns framing a huge shelf covered in dusty records. Aziraphale makes a mental note to manifest a slightly more modernized record player into the cottage when they get home, if Crowley manages to find anything worth buying.

As it happens, they do have a few-odd old diaries and first-person accounts at the consignment sale, donations made by younger generations who held no interest in such history. Aziraphale makes a stack of them and then he’s approached by the proprietor.

“Need a basket?” the woman asks, peering up at him suspiciously.

“Ah, certainly, thank you.” Aziraphale takes the proffered basket and sets his selections into it and then cranes his neck for Crowley.

The woman follows his gaze and makes a derisive noise in her nose which sounds like " _tranny_ " before drawing away back to her till so she can glower over the room. 

Aziraphale frowns after her and his nostrils flare a little bit, which has Crowley looking around instantly as if he caught a whiff of ozone (he did). The angel goes directly across the shop to him and Crowley notes the firm set of his mouth.

“Whas’ wrong, angel?” he asks, brows knitting. “I see you found some goodies.”

“Yes, but that woman was rude. She noticed I was looking ‘round for you and sneered.”

“Hmm.” Crowley shrugs and goes back to flicking through the stacks of records, shuffling one or two out along the way.

"I'm fairly certain she called you something rather nasty." 

"Maybe you should steal those and I'll cause a scene?" Crowley flashes his teeth in his best, most tempting smile. 

"Oh, you wily serpent. No. I shall refuse to patronize her, though, and perhaps bless her competitors." 

"Yeah. Bless 'em. Hmm. You do that, I'll do this," and before Aziraphale can frown, Crowley snaps and the ancient sprinkler system in the old building groans to life. A flash of sharp white teeth split a grin as the demon chases Aziraphale outside while the woman runs around shrieking about the sudden "burst pipe." 

"Ah, that was fun," Crowley chuckles, raising an eyebrow at Aziraphale, who still has the basket of books hung over his crooked elbow. 

"Well, I couldn't very well let them be ruined," the angel sniffs, turning the wire basket into a canvas bag and encouraging Crowley to sling it over a sharp shoulder. "They're _handwritten journals_ from the Great War."

"Whatever you say, angel."

"Ooh, darling, is that an ice cream parlor? Mine _was_ ruined, after all...." 

Crowley allows himself to be dragged along toward a vibrant purple awning and quietly reels over the fact that Aziraphale has been holding his hand since they ran out the door. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smut. Tender fluffy shenanigans

The touching, Aziraphale notices, is becoming easier and easier to do without thinking. A fond caress as they pass by in the kitchen, a hand on a lower back though a doorway. Fingertips, dancing across the back of a palm on a tabletop in town, over dinner.

They curl together in ~~Crowley's~~ _their_ wide bed at night and sometimes on the chaise longue in the evenings and most often on the sofa when they are bored.

Aziraphale has taken to wearing soft linen trousers and button-down shirts, occasionally with a sweater vest or matching linen waistcoat. It’s warm and breezy on the cliffs in the summer, and wool was proving to be entirely too warm, even for an ethereal being.

And Crowley still wears dark, tight jeans and a vest but has taken to a henley or soft-worn flannel most days now. He can often be seen out working in the garden or cleaning the house with his hands, instead of using a miracle. He’s taken to tending bees and upkeeping a vibrant, utilitarian, but _beautiful_ garden for their little fuzzy friends. In turn, the bees provide them with regular quarts of absolutely perfect honey.

They've both let their beards go a bit; Crowley's is curling in a dark auburn, though it is barely more than scruff yet. Aziraphale's just makes him look even more like a displaced professor. 

Crowley has grown fond of the children in town, who seem to herd around him together in a clump. They like his games and think he's wickedly clever (and Aziraphale tends to agree). The kids like Mr. Fell, too, but mostly because he sneaks them treats on his way home with his takeaway or tells them stories that sound so surreal it’s like he was there, saw it with his own eyes. One time Mr. Fell carried a snake into town on his shoulders while running his errands and scared mean old Mrs. Chatterly half to death, and that was the kids' favorite day by far. He let them pet the snake before he went home, but they had to ask it nicely. It obligingly curled around Johnny's wrist, which made them all squeal with delight. 

Some of the parents in the small town are skeptical of the two, slightly-eccentric-seeming, older apparently- _together_ men who moved in recently out on the cliffs, but they seem nice enough and provide good business and otherwise keep to themselves. (Even though the jumble shop woman had to close down after a suspicious, nasty water main incident, and Mrs. Chatterly always talks to the blonde one with a fair amount of space between them, now.)

Sometimes the tall one wears dresses, but after a few instances like that, most of the townsfolk decide it’s no worse than the skintight clothes he normally wears, which leave even less to the imagination.

In all, the villagers seem to find themselves feeling terribly _cosmopolitan_ at having a gay couple suddenly in their town limits.

They are even usually _holding hands,_ which gets the old ladies gossiping like nothing else has since Ruth's daughter married a black boy in 1996 and then promptly moved away with him to Scotland. 

But this quiet, utterly domestic afternoon, Crowley is sweat-streaked and dirty from kneeling in flowerbeds all day. He'd used his hands and a spade to pull a sapling out by the rootball and moved it to the far side of their privacy fence. He then planted a flowering bush for the bees in the hole, among other tidying-up business like weeding and watering. 

Aziraphale is boiling the kettle and prepping two mugs on the worktop, watching his beloved friend through the kitchen window. From this vantage point, the _orangerie_ is to the left, not obscuring his view of the main garden, only blocking (through many panes of muzzy, green- tinted glass) the left side of the lawn and the rolling hills that turn down into cliffs further alone the coastline. He can see Crowley there quite easily, topless with dirty jeans that are never _not_ tinged in the sides with mud, anymore. His black vest can be seen in a crumpled heap a few feet away, likely soaked to the brim with sweat.

The demon will come in soon, and there will be a hot bath and steaming mug of smoky, freshly-brewed _lapsang sauchong_ waiting for him, over-sweetened with their own harvested honey from Crowley's very happy, active bees. 

Aziraphale steeps the tea, sweetens Crowley's ( _too much, blegh_ ), and removes himself to his preferred armchair to read until they decide what else there is to do tonight. 

Predictably soon, Crowley swipes the back of his wrist against his forehead and squints along the flowerbed, muttering something as he relaxes his bum against his bootheels and then stands. The knees of his jeans are smudged from kneeling in mud and the outsides of his thighs coated in soil from wiping his hands there constantly. The sun is over head and his nape is a bit pink, as are the tips of his ears and the high points of those sharp cheekbones and shoulders. The rest of him is quite tan from doing this a few times a week (and all the lazy sunbathing, besides). He stands and wipes his hands on his jeans again, trying to get as much off as possible before scooping up his vest and entering the mudroom through the orangerie. His muddy garden boots are kicked off on the tray left by the door for that reason, to catch clods and debris. He shucks off his dirty clothes and tosses them in the wash and then and moves on into the kitchen in just his pants. 

Aziraphale is reading in a wingback armchair when Crowley comes in, barefoot and in only his tight red civvies, and makes for the stairs. He's mud-streaked from rivulets of sweat and from swiping at it with dirty hands, and is eager for a shower and the tea he has come to know is lurking somewhere, perfectly made (he’d missed the mug on the counter when he passed thru).

“Headed for a shower, darling?” Aziraphale asks, smiling up at Crowley with only a little pout as he watches a biscuit disappear from his plate. “Your tea is on the worktop.”

“Mhmm. Sweaty. Dinner later?” Crowley doubles back and goes for his tea with the distinct sensation of two angelic eyes glued to his arse. He might sashay a _little_ extra for effect.

“Of course, where would you like?” Aziraphale sounds breathless, but like he’s trying not to be. Crowley smirks and comes back to the den with his mug.

“Hmm. That little Indian spot in Brighton is good. In the mood for some naan. Something soft and pillowy, anyway.” Aziraphale does not know what to say to that. He blinks up at Crowley and has the impression he is turning vaguely pink to match the sunwarmed demon.

"Joining, or?" Crowley asks with a waggle of eyebrows, leaning down quickly to snatch a mini bakewell tart off Aziraphale's plate as he passes by.

The angel stammers, caught off guard. "Wh-what? Join-- in the bath?"

"Hmm." Crowley smirks and trods upstairs, leaving the ball in the angel's court.

 _Good lord I've hardly kissed him properly yet and he’s inviting me into the bath!_ Aziraphale immediately frets and wrings his hands, not exactly concerned over the right and wrong of it anymore, but whether he’s going about this courting thing in the right order.

Shouldn’t there be kissing first? They’ve been on plenty of dates! And are going on another one, tonight.

 _Oh dear_.

 _Right_.

Aziraphale stomps up the steps and barges into the toilet where steam has built up nicely. Crowley jumps in shock, squawks, and drops something in the basin of the tub. The clatter of it is only overshadowed by his yelp of pain. “What on earth are you doing?”

“You said I should join you, but I shan’t. We’re dating now and we haven’t kissed yet.”

“Angel. I was teasing. I know you don't... ah. And we’re bloody well _living together_. We _share a bed_. None of this has been “in order” by any stretch.” He can tell that Crowley has sighed and is scrubbing a hand over his face behind the shower door. "And we kissed before we moved here, in case you forgot." 

Aziraphale had forgotten, but only temporarily. He thinks about their relieved, harried snog on that first night of freedom often enough. He's just a little frazzled, now. "Oh." 

"Yeah, well. You just...think about dinner, angel. I'll finish up and join you soon enough and we can go." 

"Oh, be _quiet_ , you idiot. I _had_ forgotten but only because you startled me with your tempting." 

"You know me, always tempting," Crowley grouses. The smell of his body wash permeates the small room and Aziraphale lets out an irritable huff. 

"That is not what I meant." 

"S'alright angel, I know." Water slaps the basin of the shower stall and the water cuts off. Aziraphale dithers for a moment and ends up handing Crowley a towel when he swings the door open with an arched eyebrow. 

"Let's make a basket instead, dear. Go down to the water?" 

"Sure. You pick the wine." Crowley dries off and slides out into the bedroom to dress for a sandy evening. Aziraphale bites his lip and scurries down to the kitchen and begins throwing all sorts of things in their picnic basket. He finds the silly silicone goblets Crowley had ordered when they moved here in the dishwasher and tosses them in, too. 

By the time he's selected a wine, chilled it with a miracle, and zipped it into its thermal sleeve, Crowley is leaning on the door jamb to the hall with their blanket over one arm and his beach wear on (which consists of _microscopic_ black briefs and a gauzy, lacy coverup and nothing else). His hair is longer now, curling around his collarbones at the tips. It's still wet from his shower, so the demon has piled it up in a messy bun atop his head. His sunglasses are perched up there too. 

"Ready?" 

"Yes, if course. I packed some naan pieces and the tapenade hummus, since you wanted that earlier." 

"Hmm." Crowley smiles a bit and launches off toward the back door to take their winding path down the cliff to the beach below. Aziraphale totters along behind, carrying the basket and fretting more with each step. 

It's a humid day but the sun isn't too strong overhead, peeking out between clouds now and again. Crowley spreads the blanket and weighs down the edges with rocks they've left down there for that purpose. The angel sets the basket down and toes his shoes off before sitting, accepting a filled, silicone "glass" from his companion with a grateful smile. 

"Stop it," Crowley sighs after a few moments of watching the tide. Aziraphale jumps with the admonishment and steals a glance sideways. 

"What?" 

"I can feel you worrying over 'ere angel. Quit. Nothing to get twisted up over. I'm _happy_ , here. Are you?" 

Aziraphale's brow crumples in concern. "Of _course_ I am, darling. How could I not be?" 

"Sometimes you get that look like you used to give _Gabriel_ when he was around, like you're hiding something, or trying not to react." Crowley deadpans at him and Aziraphale is taken aback by the bluntness of the demon's answer. After 6000 years of double-speak, being plain to one another still chafes now and again. 

"I'm very glad to be here, dear boy. You are much happier here, I can tell. Freer, calmer. I like seeing it. And I greatly enjoy being closer, certainly. Being able to see and touch you every day, after _so long_ of forced avoidance, of escaping the bloody _heartache_ of being in your orbit for _actual millennia_ and not being able to reach across the span of your car seats to hold your hand, feels like a dream." Aziraphale furrows his brow a bit and stares at the squishy cup in his hand. He sets it down in a soft divot of sand and holds both hands out to Crowley, who frowns a little in return. "Let me hold you a bit?" 

Crowley immediately softens and squirms closer, letting the angel scoop him against his chest and position him until they’re both facing the sea, with Crowley’s back against Aziraphale’s chest, long legs sprawled out ahead of them and pointing left and right. His gauzy cover has been abandoned, draped over the basket to keep the flies out of the hummus and Aziraphale’s tin of chocolate cake from Mrs. Stansberry down the lane. The soft tendrils of Crowley’s hair blow in the breeze off the water and tickle the angel’s chin until he tucks it down, pressing his mouth against Crowley’s ear.

“I love you my dear. More than I think I ever loved heaven. They never stood a chance. It broke my heart to tell you no, all the times I had to push you away. But I didn’t feel a thing except _relief_ when I walked away from them, after everything. For that I’m sorry. You didn’t seserve all the mistrust I harbored against you.”

Crowley is quiet for a while, eyes watery and jaw working against a telling sniffle, but eventually he sighs and speaks: “I knew angel. I could tell. It was hard sometimes, when you were really mean about it, like over the Holy Water, or at the bandstand, there at the end. But you came ‘round eventually, like always. I don’t think I would have been able to go, anyway, to be honest. I’ve never been good at leaving you for long, and it’s only gotten worse since our little Arrangement began.”

“Yes. And don’t think I didn’t see you hiding our vows in your bedside table when we moved. You still have this,” Aziraphale fingers the chain hanging around Crowley’s neck, which has been there since 1020 AD when they had drunkenly arranged the… well, the Arrangement (and signed a piece of paper that told the world they were married by human standards, which Crowley had laughed at and then slunk off early the next morning to apparently miracle the thing impervious to damage.)

“Hmm. Happy one-thousandth anniversary, angel.”

“I think it was more in March, wasn’t it? We missed it, then,” Aziraphale takes the ring on the chain between a thumb and forefinger and holds it up. “You know, we never got much around to the things married humans do.

“Humans do those things in general, angel,” Crowley scoffs, wriggling on the blanket a bit. “’Sides, y’know. Never thought you’d be after it. Not with me, anyway, you bloody hedonist.”

“And you, remarking to an entire village the non-necessity of _two_ of a species to procreate,” Aziraphale jabs back playfully, poking the demon in the ribs when he turns pink and hisses. “When the female unicorn ran away.”

“Yes, yes, I get it. Ha-ha,” Crowley harrumphs and glares out at the water.

“Well, my dear. We could remedy that.” That earns the angel a sharp gasp and Crowley’s full attention as the demon squirms around and stares up at him. “You did make the offer earlier, after all.”

Crowley still has his back pressed to Aziraphale's front but he's twisted a bit to turn his head back. He makes a few unintelligible noises (ngk and ffflllknkkk are in there somewhere) before Aziraphale gently cups his jaw with a soft hand. "My dearest friend, I've wanted to kiss you every day since we came out here. Every day since the last time. Can I-- _mmf_!" He chuckles in his throat when Crowley whips around and strikes, tackling them both to the sand as he captures Aziraphale's mouth with his own. 

"Can't say shit like that and expect me to sit and wait for _you to move_ ," Crowley grits out between licks into the angel's mouth. Aziraphale snorts a laugh and takes them both down against the blanket, rolling so that his beloved demon is cushioned on the soft dunes and he is slightly hovering, pressing in for more kisses. He sucks against a split tongue, laves at it with his own when Crowley growls and shudders. Sun-browned fingers are gripping his shirt, a slender thigh draping over a plush hip. They are alone here, it's a private-ish beach and there are no stragglers in the area. Aziraphale does not feel shy about cupping a knobby knee and following it all the way up until it meets a jutting hip and lean curve of arse. He fingers the hem of Crowley's speedo and hums into his mouth.

"Darling," he breathes, entranced by the sinuous way Crowley is moving against him. "I think we might go home." He closes his wide hand over that tight arse and hears a snap and they are dropping onto their bed in a blink. Aziraphale is on his back, now, and Crowley has moved to straddle him with long legs that actually have purchase on the bed to either side. 

"'M already practically naked, angel, and you're wearing far too much." Lissome fingers work at the buttons of his linen oxford and then spread across his chest once inside. Pressing their bare chests together is a pleasure Aziraphale hadn't quite expected. Crowley, for as cold as he can get, is hot as hellfire against him. The feel of skin on skin is like no other, and it's almost overwhelming the sense of _right_ it gives him. 

Crowley, for his part, is trying valiantly not to rut into the curve of belly beneath his hips and get off too early in the game. He's whining in his throat, a high, reedy sound that is pathetic even to his own ears. This has been the dream for a while, and the feeling of plump fingers winding through his hair is almost too much to handle being conjunction with the warmth between his legs. He can feel the steady pressure of Aziraphale's burgeoning erection pressing up in that tender space between the juncture of his thigh and his own genitals, and the need to rut against it is overbearing. 

Crowley's hands are everywhere at once, scared to land too long on any one surface. He's been dying to touch for an era or two, and it's gotten better and better since the world almost ended, but this... _this_ is sacred. 

"Ahhh-zira, can, _shit_. Can I?" He tugs at Aziraphale's belt and whines again when the angel ruts up, jolting sensation through his cock, trapped in his tiny speedo. 

"Oh, yes," Aziraphale breathes, letting Crowley's face go so he can sit back and help Aziraphale kick off the last of his clothing. "Come here, you beautiful thing." Crowley crawls back over him obediently, dropping wet, smeared kisses up the line of his belly until his mouth is captured again by a needy angel. Their cocks slide together, both aching and wet at the tip. 

Abruptly, Aziraphale grips Crowley by the shoulder and hip and shoves, rolling them until he's balanced on top. He spreads his hands over the demon's lean chest and down, sitting back on his haunches to get a better look. Crowley has always been beautiful, always made sure he was alluring (even if that biological imperative escaped him for the first few thousand years). Now is no different. He's laid out on their wide, plush bed, legs open around the angel's hips and flushed with desire and adrenaline. The twin tips of that split tongue poke out and wet his lips and Aziraphale is diving back for more, unable to resist (and he really doesn't want to, anyway). Now is not for resisting; their lives are their own now, and they've waited so long. 

"My dear. What would you like? A hand? My mouth?" He trails a hand south and wraps it around Crowley's damp cock. The demon splutters and groans, writhing. "Something more?" The pad of a finger traces under his bollocks, dipping further to trace the rim of him and Crowley's flat belly clenches with need.

“So wet for me,” Aziraphale comments, nipping at Crowley’s sternum. He glides to the side and laps at one flat nipple, relishing as it pebbles up under his tongue. The other one gets the same treatment and Crowley lets out a huff of air at the sensation of teeth closing around the peak of it.

“Y- you, _agh_. Aziraphale. Your-- m- mouth, _please_.”

“Mmm. Of course, my love. And would you like suck me, after?”

“Oh, _Jesus_. _Fuck, yes_. Anything, angel, all of it.” Crowley is writhing already at the first laps against his cockhead. Aziraphale grins against the hot flesh in his mouth and sinks down a bit. The move startles the demon, who bucks up into the welcoming heat with a whine.

Aziraphale sinks down, taking Crowley’s cock into his throat and lapping over his bollocks. He reaches up and cups them, rolling the tight heft of them a bit and pulls off enough to growl: “All of this, for me,” running a questing finger over the tender skin beneath. Crowley groans and comes hot across Aziraphale’s tongue with a yelp. His fingers are clenching in the angel’s hair and his belly flexes hard, trembling as he shakes with aftershocks. Aziraphale laps at him, suckling lightly at his tight bollocks and then dipping below to lick over his hole.

“Nnngghh— _oh_!” Crowley gasps, thighs working as he tries to decide between squirming away from over-stimulation or getting more of that devilish(ly angelic) tongue over his rim. Aziraphale retreats with a fond chuckle and sinks his teeth into one firm flank and then pushes up onto his haunches.

“You are stunning, my love.”

“Hmm. Say that again.”

Understanding him immediately, Aziraphale crawls over him and sighs, “ _I love you,_ ” accepting a soft kiss that turns plundering all too quickly for him to keep up. Crowley sits up, straddles and then bears him down into the bedding with a lithe move that leaves the angel reeling. “Oh, my dearest friend. You are _the only thing_ on this earth I can’t live without. Do you understand?”

“Yes. _Yes_ , angel I do. Truly,” Crowley answers. “You’re the only thing I’ve stuck around for, to be honest. Couldn’t go without you, not anywhere for long, yeah?” the demon wiggles his hips in between Aziraphale’s thighs and shimmies down, lapping at all the soft skin below him, mouthing over a nipple, nipping at rolls of flesh and scraping his sharp teeth at the line of cottony hair below Aziraphale’s navel. The angel trembles with need, reaching to twine his fingers in the long red hair tickling his thighs. Crowley laps a line up the underside of the fat cock in his fist, unable to resist closing over the head and giving it a firm suck.

“Oh! My goodness, dear boy, that tongue is _devilish_.” Crowley pops off with a huffed giggle and lays his forehead on a padded hipbone.

“Fuck, angel, y'can’t just _say_ shit like that while i'm sucking you off. I’m likely to come against the sheets if you keep talking like that.” Crowley ground his cock, which was filling again against the bed and lapped again at the cock under his chin. With a deft move his fingers are slicked and probing gently, tracing the tight rim between Aziraphale's cheeks. He rolls the tip of his middle finger inside at the same time he closes his mouth over both of the angel's balls and laves at them. Aziraphale moans like the first time he had gravlax and dill and Crowley nearly comes again from sheer want. He sinks his finger in the rest of the way and wiggles it about, searching. His angel arches away with a gasp a second later and fists clench in red hair, guiding the demon back to Aziraphale's cock with an urgency that makes the demon laugh again. 

As soft and unassuming as Aziraphale is on any given day, he is preternaturally strong in only the kind of way a guardian of Eden should be. The power there in the hands guiding the demon on and off his cock is intoxicating, and Crowley goes mindless from it, letting his beloved angel use his mouth for his pleasure. Lacking a gag reflex has a certain charm, and once Crowley remembers that his is optional, Aziraphale really gets going, fucking into Crowley's throat with abandon until the demon prods firmly and repeatedly against his prostate and he's coming so hard there's a crackle of lightening in the garden. 

Crowley dutifully swallows him down everything he can, missing a dribble or two but it's no matter. He's dragged up and kissed soundly (and manhandled almost violently) until they are spooning tight under the covers in their plush bed in a cottage in the South Downs. Aziraphale is in bed _with_ him, and they are _together_ , and the world is _still turning_.

And that's all that matters, after the end. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really wanted to do thigh fucking, but the muse decided blow jobs. i shall add thigh fucking to the new story. if you havent had a chance to read and you aren't violently against AUs, come check out Lover Boy, my new WIP. 
> 
> leave me a note. i love you all.


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